What My Dog Has to Teach Me About Inner Peace

I’m pretty sure my dog has no concept of time. Well, maybe a tiny, tiny concept of time. He doesn’t whimper as if he’ll never see me again when I leave now and he used to. So I think some sort of “She’ll come back” has emerged in his little brain, but that’s about it. For the most part, there is no linear sequence for him as there is for us.

Because of this, he is immune to the number one thing that prevents us humans from being able to live in the moment: the focus on past and future. For him there is no past and there is no future. He doesn’t worry about what happened or what will happen next. He doesn’t fear what’s coming up the pike. He doesn’t sit around thinking about how his life has gone and whether or not that meets his expectations. He doesn’t wonder what he might be like if he were a bulldog rather than a poodle. None of that exists to him.

For him, if something good is going on, it’s the best thing ever! Seriously- ever! And if something bad is going on, again, it’s the worst thing ever. But the up side of that? Guess how long he’s going to be bothered about it? For a few milli seconds.

If he gets reprimanded with a stern “No!” and a return to his pen for tearing something up or making a mess, it is, as I said, the worst thing that has ever happened- for about 2 seconds. Then something smells interesting or he spots the toy sitting over there and goes to play with it or just snuggles up on that smelly t-shirt and all is right with the world again. He doesn’t berate himself for he what he did wrong, he doesn’t conclud that he’s an idiot for making a mistake, he doesn’t even feel guilty- he just moves on with his life, free of any of the negative emotions that tend to plague us humans.

For him all that exists, all the matters, is right now. Every moment is lived to the fullest because that’s all there is. It’s all instinct and natural reactions. He can’t lie, he can’t pretend, he can’t over dramatize. It is what it is, literally.

I’m not saying he has no memory because slowly but surely he’s learning what we’re training him to do. But he certainly has no lingering emotions in reaction to what he does, he’s just not built that way. Life is life- not good or bad or anything other what it is at this particular moment in time. There’s no longing for better days or wondering where he’ll end up, there's just now.

And me, the one who does get lost in the past or future, who worries and frets and fears, who wonders what will be- I am student to this little, fluffy guru. As I sit lost in thought he comes over and reminds me “It’s play time now!” And then I am in his world- there is nothing more than excitement over fetching the ball or chewing on the stick. He reminds it’s a time for a walk and I am outside, listening to the wind in the leaves, feeling the heat of the sun on my back, remembering that the world is so much bigger than the space that I occupy. He snuggles on my lap and that’s all I need. Whatever is wrong with the world, I have my puppy and his happiness is absolute and it fixes my mood, however poor it may be.

From me he gets food and treats and toys. He learns sit and down and stay. He gets snuggles and play time and attention. But from him I get so much more. I get little tiny glimses of life right now, free of all the ways we humans like to ruin that. Dogs are freakin awesome.

Buddy in the Park

We took Buddy for a walk in Valley Forge park today. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since long before we got him, having seen countless people happily walking their dogs along the path every time I drive through there.

Buddy, as always, was crazy excited- bouncing around like a wind-up toy and sniffing everything with the fascination of a two year old. He loved the long grasses on the side of the path a little too much and we had to keep reining him in for fear of ticks and whatnot. Needless to say, we didn’t get to cover much distance.

We had just rounded a curve in the path when we heard a very loud, very deliberate screech of brakes on a bike tire- the kind of thing you hear when someone is trying to hurriedly come to a stop to avoid hitting something. We looked up to see what had happened.

A young woman was running- running over to us, removing her bike helmet as she came. She only had eyes for Buddy.

“Oh my god! He is the cutest- what kind of Dog is this? Oh my god!” she said, bent over to look at him.

We rushed to give his usual introduction: “This is Buddy, he’s a toy poodle.”

Buddy gave his usual greeting: bouncing around and making quick, short sounds with his open mouth and wildly flailing tongue- the sound that is not a bark or growl or any other distinguishable noise.

“Hi Buddy!” she cooed at him. “Can I pet him?” she asked without stopping to see if it was ok. We were fine with it anyway, we wanted to test out our training, see if he could behave appropriately when greeted by strangers.

She pet him, cooed at him, marveled at him as he jumped up and down in front of her like a spring. We just stood and watched, amazing at how excited she was. She might have been more excited than he was, actually.

The power of Buddy: stopping people dead in their tracks!

Wash it Off

Irked. Irritated. Angry. Sometimes hurt. These are all emotions that tend to rub off on me. I’m not an empath. I don’t pick up and embody every emotion that I come in contact with. But I think it’s literally impossible for any human being not to pick up on these little snippets of emotion that constantly float around the surface of a person like shedding skin cells.

If you’re a barber, you will inevitable find yourself covered with teeny tiny little lengths of hair all over and nothing but a good, thorough shower is going to wash that off. If you’re a nurse and you spend all day cleaning up all manner of bodily fluids you will inevitably be in need of a good scrub when you get home. And when you do what I do it is literally impossible not to find little pieces of someone else’s emotions lurking on the surface of you.

On good days, when you’re focused and grounded you notice the build up. You can actually feel yourself slipping into a state of dudgeon as the little bits and pieces of strong emotion build up. But on bad days, when you’re distracted or tired or just physically feel icky, you tend not to notice until you succumb to a full blown hissy fit.

And then, after the heart has slowed and the breaths deepen and you re-gain your bearings you start to wonder “what was that all about?”. And then you remember- “Oh yeah, these aren’t my emotions.”

Sojourn in the City

You know that feeling that you get when you really, really have to pee and then do but your bladder’s been so full for so long that afterwards you still feel like you have to pee? Well that’s how I felt when I left my ashram.

I’d let go of so much while I was there, done so much personal investigation, released so much anger, shame, remorse and doubt and unloaded so much spiritual crap that even after I was ‘ready’ I still felt like I needed more time. I was advised that this was a common feeling and that the real work, the real change would come day by day as I practiced what I’d learned ‘in real life’. I trusted my teachers and advisors enough not to question this, so I dove back into ‘real life’ with all the trepidation that would come.

I figured I couldn’t get anymore ‘real life’ than New York city. With so many people so involved in their own worlds and so much energy bouncing around I figured it’d be like placing myself in the core of a nuclear reactor and trying to remain still. Best to test my mettle when I was still fresh from the retreat and hone my abilities for real world application. At least, that was my thought.

I did pretty well in the beginning, in spite of everything. I sat in my tiny studio apartment with the sounds of the sirens blaring and the abusive father next door screaming at his kids and the constantly broken radiator clunking away and I focused on controlling my breath and calming my mind.

I sat on the crowded subway being jostled and shoved and stepped on and I imagined waves of loving kindness radiating out from me and touching everyone. I practiced my Metta and imagined myself as the stone that drops in the water that sends the ripples through the surface.

I even walked down the crowded street and practiced my Karuṇā, imagining myself sinking in and becoming one with the flow of the crowd and passing on my state to all those walking the same path. I was the food coloring in the bowl of water that changes the color of the mass and my color was completely free from ill will.

But, the city was strong and I was new at this whole transcendence thing. It was a natural erosion, an inevitable weathering in the storm. And day by day, little by little, I felt my peace wear away.

It was so subtle that, had I not been mediating so much, I wouldn’t have noticed. But it builds gradually- the slight, split-second of annoyance turns into a minute of anger. The weariness of the day turns into exhaustion. The abundant flow of energy begins to run dry.

And so, I made a decision with all the intentions of acceptance I could muster. I bought a pair of ear plugs. And I have to say, although spiritual peace may be nirvana, man-made silence is pretty damned nice, too.

The House on Hubert St.

Jacob was pissed. He was beyond pissed. He was so angry that he could have burned down the old brown house with dingy white shutters and perpetually broken gutters on Hubert St. using nothing but the anger in his own mind, except that he wasn’t telepathic. But if he had been, he would have totally done it.

Because then he wouldn’t have to stay there for a week while his mom abandoned him to go nurse his stupid aunt back to health who nearly burned up in the fire she caused by passing out with a lit cigarette in her mouth for the third time in as many years and who was so perpetually helpless that there wasn’t a single week that went by without a panicked phone call about whatever man in her life had screwed her over this time or what mysterious new physical ailment she’d developed because she was forever cursed by the barrage of crap that life insisted upon raining down on her.

Jacob saw the pointlessness of it and he was only 13. Why his mother insisted on continuously running to the rescue of this woman who kept her constantly on edge he couldn’t tell you. And as if inviting him along was any consolation for having to constantly deal with this. Really? Like he would purposely choose to go deal with that?

So he was left to decide his punishment and he had to choose to spend the week at the awful house on Hubert street. The one that smelled like rotten beets and was always stifling hot because its owner didn’t believe in air conditioning. The one with more cobwebs on the high bookshelves and the corners of the walls than any haunted house advertised at Halloween time. The one with so many old newspapers stacked up against the walls that hallways were near impassable in some areas. The one where the only person angrier than him lived.

As he stared out the window at the increasingly rural landscape he found himself sending out waves of hatred to everything. He wasn’t discriminatory in his rage, he hated it all. He hated that broken fence lining the horse farm where he’d never once seen a horse running in the field. He hated the fog sprawling out across the sky and he hated the sky for picking today to start dumping rain on everything in sight. He hated that pothole that made his mom curse every single time she ran over it and which had been there for as many years as he could remember. He hated his mom more for not remembering that it was there.

And when they finally pulled up to the house he hated it more than he’d ever hated it before. He hated the dead brown leaves under the maple tree which were slowly deteriorating into mush. He hated the wheel-less garbage can in the driveway which his mom would make him drag back to its spot next to the garage. He hated the creepy one-eyed cat who looked at him as if it were plotting new and more devious ways to end his life whenever it glanced at him. And he really hated the old man standing in the doorway with bushy sideburns, an abnormally large mustache and spittle perpetually resting in the corners of his mouth.

“Hey dad,” his mom said as she stepped up the creaky wooden steps carrying his bag, “I’m sorry I have to drop him and run but-“

“No, no- I know how it is. Your sister’s in distress, don’t worry about me- it’s not like I’m doing you a favor by feeding and caring for your son. I don’t need you to pretend to visit before you jet off.”

“Dad, I-“

“No- don’t apologize. You have to go, you have to go- I understand. Jacob and I will just sit down and wait for you to return. We’ll sit right here on this porch watching for your car to pull back up like a dog who’s sole purpose in existence is to please his master, that’s what we’ll do.”

Jacob made it a point to roll his eyes using his whole body so as to make the gesture impossible for anyone to miss. His mom just smiled at her father, gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and whispered something Jacob couldn’t hear in his ear. For his part, grandpa made a gruff “humph” sound with his exhale.

“I will be back as soon as I can,” his mom said, leaning to bestow a kiss on his cheek. Jacob shied away from her, looking out over the porch. She ignored this gesture and grabbed him for a hug. Jacob stood there, arms limp at his sides, body stiff and unrelenting. His mom just squeezed harder, whispered an “I love you” into his ear, pecked him on the cheek and let go, dashing for the car with a wave back at them.

Jacob and his grandfather stood there on the porch, watching her wave as she drove off, looking very much like the dejected dogs his grandfather had compared them to. And mixed in with the hatred Jacob felt a ping of something else, something he wouldn’t understand until much later in life.

“Well, lets not stand here gathering moss,” his grandfather said turning to open the door inside. “Let’s feed you something, you must be starving after the drive. I made you your favorite hot dogs.”

Jacob went in through the proffered opening, mumbling under his breath. His grandfather somehow managed to make the soggiest, most pathetic and grandfatherly hot dogs on the planet but Jacob had given up on telling him this as every time he’d attempted to tell his grandfather that hotdogs hadn’t been his favorite food since he was five the old man’s memory had failed him.

The old man watched his grandson walking down the hallway, shrugging his huge book bag further up on his back and mumbling and smiled.

Buddy Vs. The Front Step

Buddy is a toy poodle. For those of you who don't know the breed, they are very small. The place you seem most likely to see them nowadays is in the oversized purse of a young fashionista. As I am not aware of fashion I don't carry Buddy around in a purse, I take him for walks.

There is one big obstacle to this: the front step to our house. It’s about- a foot, maybe? Maybe even 14 inches? Not that tall for humans- but very, very tall to tiny little dogs like Buddy. At first he couldn’t even get up on his own- he would sit on the ground and whimper to be lifted up over this giant obstacle. We, being concerned dog parents, eagerly complied.

Over time, however, Buddy has grown. He has gotten bigger, taller, and more capable of getting up this step. So we started to suspect that the whimpering wasn’t so much for assistance as for attention. Not wanting to coddle him more than we already do we didn’t lift him but simply gave him a boost with our foot. Then eventually we didn’t do anything, but simply called him. He would jump, pull himself up, and mount that terribly tall step all by himself.

It took about one repetition of this for Buddy to get confident. Instead of carefully stepping down from or jumping back up the front step he started taking flying leaps off of it and flying leaps up. It’s quite a site to see- Buddy doing a miniature superman pose off the step.

There’s only one problem: Buddy is a giant klutz. The dog can lose his footing hoping over a sock let a lone a 14 inch step. So immediately upon starting the flying leaps, he started the giant crashes. He would get a running start towards the step, jump, and land face first against the step. You know those cartoons where the character will run head-on into a wall and land with their arms and legs splayed out? Yeah, he looks like that.

Just about every day there’s a new scene for us to behold as he makes his leap. He’ll land half way up the step, flail and fall backwards. He’ll land sideways on the step and flop over on his side. The best one I’ve seen yet: he took a running leap off the step, turned in mid air- and landed directly on his back! I have no idea how he managed that particular feat, but I know the laughter nearly killed me.

I know eventually he’ll get over the novelty of the step and just step down like it’s nothing. But for now it’s about the funniest damned thing I’ve ever seen.

Buddy Goes for a Walk

When buddy first got home he was without any of the defenses one needs in order to go out into the big, bad world. So there were a couple of months where all of our walks were just in our backyard. Needless to say, when his vaccination series was finished and we took him out on his first walk we were pretty excited- but you should have seen him!

Oh the smells, the sights, the other dogs! His world suddenly got a whole a lot bigger. And we got verification that the insanity we’d experienced over just how damned adorable he is was not reserved to us.

We were on the street corner, Buddy sniffing and me standing, when I heard a woman’s voice exclaim “Oh my God!”

I turned to see a middle aged woman in business casual leaning over to the passengers side of her car with the window open. She was sitting with the car in idle, in the middle of the road.

“What kind of dog is that”? she asked excitedly. (This question, by the way, has become the trademark question for Buddy. I guess people need a way to categorize his cuteness.)

“He’s a toy poodle,” I said proudly, walking over so she could get a better look at him.

Buddy, as if on cue, started jumping and barking and going crazy like the attention whore he is. The lady’s jaw dropped open.

“Oh my god! That is- that’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen!” she said, smiling widely. “What’s his name?”

“Buddy,” I said, feeling a little smug. This was the first time I’d seen anyone outside our little family melt so much over him. It wouldn’t be the last.

“Oh, Buddy!” she cooed. And sat there for a little while longer, the sheer force of Buddy’s adorableness pulling her into him like gravity. And then another car pulled onto the road behind her and stopped, someone stepping out to get his mail.

She didn’t seem to see them, just kept staring at Buddy. I looked over at the car behind her, trying to indicate that she might need to move. She looked back and saw them too, then reluctantly took her foot off the break.

“Oh, well- he is- he is just the cutest!” she said as she started to pull away.

“Say ‘thanks,’ Buddy,” I said, and waved at her.

The power of Buddy: holding up traffic.

Signed

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But he couldn't not do it. He just couldn't.

He knew that he could have stayed home, filled everything out, shoved it in the envelope and gone to bed to watch Letterman. Then he would have gotten up the next morning and drove into work as if it had been just another Monday.

But he couldn't not do something. You don't end a chapter of your life that significant without marking the occasion. Even if it is a terrible occasion and you're marking it in a uselessly destructive way.

Perhaps, he thought, if he knew of a better way to handle it wouldn't be happening in the first place. Perhaps if he was smarter he'd still be living in a nice house in the suburbs rather than his crappy apartment where the hallway always reeked of Indian food and the elevator was always broken. Perhaps if he was calmer he’d be able to keep company with more than just his cat who always seemed like he was judging him, though in a decidedly feline way. Perhaps if he’d taken the time to seriously think about it before committing to something legally, rather than trusting his heart and chocking the whole thing up to emotional logic, he’d be a different man now.

But he didn’t and he wasn’t and now he had no choice but to pay the price. Now he would have this mark on his permanent life record, a sign that no matter what else he did, no matter what he might eventually accomplish, he started out with a truly juvenile mistake. Now, right now, he was sitting in this bar, and this Monday night, with this pen in his hand and this paper in front of him. It felt like it whole life had been boiled down to some legal jargon that he couldn’t really understand, although his lawyer had explained it to him.

He looked around the bar, at the other patrons sipping their beer and watching the game. He wondered how many of them had done what he was about to do. He was happy that the Yankees were playing, he could at least pretend that’s why he was there. But he imagined his true reasoning was evident when the rest of the bar jumped up in an excited wave cursing at the pitcher or yelling at the player who got out and he just looked up with a perplexed expression. No, he wasn’t fooling anyone. Then again, no one really cared, anyway.

He looked back down at the paper. It remained as unsigned as it had been for the past hour. He looked at the clock. It was getting late. He should be home by now, asleep with this behind him, consoling himself that life would go on and there’d be chances for new beginnings and growth and all that crap.

But he sat there, pen in hand, paralyzed. It felt like a physical block in his hand as if some insect had crept up on him, quietly and mildly, and injected some neurotoxin into his system. Like this poison had come from some outside source and struck him down in his youth, making him incapable to performing one simple act.

But he knew that wasn’t the case, this was his paralysis, he inflicted it upon himself. He’d jumped in feet first without checking to see if there rocks on the bottom and now he was stuck on the shore with night falling and his ca parked way up the hill. It would be a long climb with broken limbs and that scared him enough that he wasn’t willing to admit that he was there.

He down the last of his beer and slammed the mug down on the table. This was bullshit, he wasn’t this weak. It was just a simple signature, a movement of the hand in an automatic way. It would be done in a split second and he’d walk of the bar and move on with his life.

“Just. Sign. It.” He told himself.

And he moved his hand above the paper, fixed his wrist and touched his pen down. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath, tried again. His hand gripped tighter and the pen slipped right out of his grasp. He bent down under the table to get and banged his head hard on the way back up.

“Damn it!” he cursed. No one bothered to look his way, all busy in their own curses at the outfielder who’d just dropped the ball and fumbled what should have been the last out of the inning.

“This is what happens you feel sorry for yourself, asshole” he chastised himself. He stretched his fingers, straightened his back, and picked the pen back up. “Just sign it.”

He placed the pen on the paper, straightened his wrist, closed his eyes, and moved his hand. And that was it. He opened his eyes and looked down at the paper. It was so simple, so insignificant, just more paperwork to be filed. There was nothing of the life they’d had together, the memories they would never make, the people they’d become now that this was over. It was just another signature on a simple piece of paper. And now he like every other asshole around, was divorced.

He slid the paper into the envelop and sealed it, paid his tab and walked out to his car. He didn’t let himself think anymore, let the automatic pilot take over and steer him home. He sang along to the radio without any connection to the words and thought about what his cat might be doing when he got home. And just for a second, he began to think that it wasn’t so bad. But then he glanced at the envelop on the passengers seat and choked. No, it was going to be a while before he was ok.

True Black

Dark shapes swam, spun and swirled through the darkness around the faint light of her candle.  She knew what was hunting her without seeing and she knew it was after more than her death.  The screams of her companions had died out long before and she felt crushed under the weight of her title: the last one left alive.  It wouldn’t be long before her weak flame flickered out and she would be consumed.

My New Office

It’s amazing how huge of an impact simple, insignificant things can have on you. For example, my new office has a window. Well, it’s not technically a window, it’s one of those glass sliding doors. To “open the window” I slide the door open. I can get a really strong breeze going through here when I open that door.

My last office didn’t have a window. In fact, my last office wasn’t even my office because my desk was crammed in there with two other people. I was almost never alone. The office before that (which seems like longer ago than it was) also did not have a window.

In the past, sans window, I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t a big deal. I’d tell myself “you’ll get more done this way.” I’d think that I really didn’t want a window anyway- afterall, if it was raining I didn’t want to see that. And if it was sunny, I’d be depressed that I was stuck inside. I’d make up reasons as to why it just didn’t matter enough for it to bug me. But underneath that all, it bugged me. And over time, it started to really, really bug me.

My new office, as I said, has a window. A really big one that lets in a lot of air. And right now, sitting here at my desk, I can look outside. I can see the sun shining down on the big, green tree. I can hear the leaves rustling in the wind and birds chirping in the bushes. I can see the sky darken and lighten as clouds pass overhead. I notice the sun changing its position in the sky as the day wears on.

And you know those horrible, buzzing overhead lights? I can leave them off because my window lets in enough light that I don’t need them. It pours in and bounces off the lite yellow walls. I’m normally not a fan of yellow but this color seems like it was specifically designed to reflect the sunlight. Sunlight and wind, pouring into my office, reminding how close the outside world is.

Forget about the actual job and how much more comfortable I am with this work. Forget about my co-workers who are competent, seem to have a good work ethic and (gasp) whom I actually want to eat lunch with. Forget about the software which, unlike my last job, actually works the way it’s supposed to. Forget about the absence of stress, the presence of supervision and training and the ease with which I am figuring out how to perform my job duties. Forget about all the other positive differences there are.

The office- in and of itself- is bringing about such an amazing change of mood that I’m now realizing how deeply it affected me to be stuck where I was before. Thank god for windows.

Playground Politics

She would never admit it to anyone, but Elaine got a thrill out of being playground monitor.  She saw herself, in quiet moments, as the overlord of an intricate web of social connections and hierarchies.  She surveyed as children fought for dominance in the sandbox, determined who could ride the swings first, pushed their way ahead in line for the slide.  Every moment another child would make his claim to a piece of playground equipment and have to prove his dominance over the child in charge.  Fierce battles would erupt and she would be the one to determine the victor.

Now, in terms of her job, she should have punished the dominant child- the one who pushed hardest or hit.  The rules led that child to time out and demanded a stern redirection.  But from time to time, she had to reward those who showed signs of leadership capacity.

That’s what most people didn’t understand.  It was less like the African Sahara where male lions would fight over the spoils and more like primitive forms of government.  Some children even showed Machiavellian policies.  They would kidnap dolls and hold them hostage in order to secure their time on the swing set.  They would lie to another child that someone else had called them a name and then steal their spot on line for the slide when they went to tell her.  One child, by sheer intimidation, had scared the other children into making offerings from their lunch bags, just so that they could sit on the bench with him.

She knew enough about the world to know that these kids would grow into leaders, using the same tools and underhanded dealing that all other leaders did.  It was just the way of the world and she wasn’t going to try to change it.

So when Tommy came to her tattling that Jimmy had taken his new toy from him she did what she was supposed to do- she went to talk to Jimmy.  She made him give it back and when Tommy returned to the sandbox to continue his epic dig she asked Jimmy what he did wrong.

“I… I took his toy without asking?” he said, hesitantly.

“No, she said, “you got caught.”

LtLM Vol Five- Enthusiasm

I don’t get apathy.  Not caring, being bored, saying “whatever”- I don’t understand it.  Don’t get me wrong, when I was going through my adolescent rebellion I tried very hard to put on air of detachment, apathy, disdain for those enthusiastic about life.  But I could never keep up the act for long.  No, my natural state is anything but apathetic.

If I like something, chances are I love it.  And if I love it, I will not only happily engage in conversation about how amazingly cool it is but I will probably yell at you if you disagree with me.  If I like something it isn’t “Oh yeah, that’s pretty cool.”  It’s “This is the greatest thing ever!”  You will frequently hear me say “that was the best movie ever!” Or “That’s coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”  I don’t use vague terms to describe the things I like- I’m very direct about it.

On the same token, if I dislike something, I turn in the comic book shop guy from The Simpsons: “Worst.  Movie.  EVER!”  If I don’t like someone I will call them names (I mean actors and other not real-world people.  I don’t call real people names.)  If something is gross it’s “The most disgusting thing ever”.    If something is disturbing I will describe it as having irreparably damaged my soul.  And again, if you disagree with me, I will probably yell at you about it.

No, when it comes to preferences on movies, music or other things pursued in the name of entertainment I don’t do middle ground.  For the most part it’s love it or hate it.  And if I say “Eh” that means hate it, I just don’t care enough to use that language.

The pros of this way of being?  Like I said, it’s hard for me to be bored.  I get energized over stuff I find cool pretty easily and will overindulge if anything.  The cons?  People who don’t get that psyched about stuff don’t get me.  But, as already mentioned, I don’t get them.  So I guess we’re even.

LtLM Vol Four- The Perfect Horror Movie Companion

This is something that several people will readily back up, so I’m confident in making the claim. Several horror movie aficionados have stated that if you’re going to a horror movie, I’m a good person to bring along. Every girly reaction you can have is an instant reflex for me. I scream at all the cheap thrills- like when the music jolts and the main character’s boyfriend pops out from behind the door because he’s playing a stupid trick on her. The stupid cheap scream gags, you know? Those work on me.

And during the really scary parts I will put my hands over my eyes and then watch from between my fingers. Or bury my head into someone’s shoulder going “No… no… no…” I also, I’ve been told, jump and flail my arms about as if trying to ward off an attack. Once, while watching Psycho for the first time, my father reached out and grabbed my ankle right as Norman bates was about to stab a guy in the forehead. I could swear my head touched the ceiling.

When at home, I will yell at the characters for being stupid. “Don’t go in there! He’s in there, you idiot! Don’t- oh, man- I freakin’ told you!” Or “Seriously? You seriously think going into the abandoned amusement park is a good idea right now? I hope you die, you deserve it!” Or “Really? Now’s the right time to become courageous when you’ve been paranoid your whole life? Moron!” They never listen to me.

And yet, in spite of being scarred out of my wits, I also enjoy the inevitable gore that comes at the hands of the masked killer or monster. I’ve been known to exclaim excitedly when people’s body parts go flying or a weapon is embedded in a limb. I praise the killer’s ingenuity when they kill someone in a new and spectacular way.

And afterwards, no matter how scarred I was at the time, I will talk about how much I thoroughly enjoyed it. And chances are, when the next big movie comes out that everyone saying is “shit your pants scary” I’ll be wanting to see it on opening night.

LtLM Vol Three- Curiosity

There are very few topics that I am not interested in. And even things that I’m not interested in, I’ll listen to what you have to tell me. I may not understand it, but I’ll listen. And if I’m not into it, I’ll still be psyched that you are. Like accountants with their tax laws, not my thing. But if you’re into it then go you! (Plus you can charge me way too much to do my taxes.) There are so many subjects that are so downright fascinating to me that it sort-of hurts my brain to think about it all.

In fact, when I was a kid, I used to get angry thinking about all the stuff there was in the universe to know about. I used to think that I had to find a way to know everything because there was just so damned much to know. And then when I figured out that one single human being can’t possibly know everything- even if they spent every single second of every single day of their entire lives studying things and learning- I got pissed off. I thought “What the hell’s the point, then?”

Rational people pointed out to me that this is why passion exists. You find something you’re really passionate about- something that really floats your boat- and you study that enough to become a bit of an expert. That way even though you don’t know even a trillionth of what there is to know, you can still be intelligent and educated about at least one thing.

Regardless of how my passion about that one thing may have expanded and faded over the years I have never lost my inquisitiveness. If I could have found a way to financially afford spending the rest of my life in college I would have. Outside in the real world I’m still asking questions- all the time, to everyone. You start talking to me about something and I will start asking you how it works. My favorite thing to do on any given vacation is go to a museum- that’s the number one attraction of any place (which is why I never plan vacations to the beach or on a cruise). My reading list never stops growing and I’m constantly adding to it. I could spend an entire month watching the Discovery channel and not get bored. (Although eventually Mike Rowe narrating every single thing might get a little old.) I’m often getting down on myself for not using my time more efficiently to learn about something.

This trait, I used to think, was nothing special. I mean, with so much to know how could you not want to learn more? But then the more exposure I got to the world, the more people I met who just didn’t give a sh*t. They wouldn’t do a project for school- even when they could choose the topic. They had no interest in reading, going to school, learning more. They’d sit across from me in a training that I was fascinated by and struggle to keep their eyes open. They’d look at me like I was crazy when I got excited and animated talking about what I’d just learned about some random thing.

I didn’t get it at first, I didn’t understand how they could have ready access and the obvious capacity to understand so much more than they did and not want to. Especially when you can use your smart phone to look up something- anything- and retrieve a million articles on in 0.000247 seconds. But some people just genuinely don’t care.

Me? I think I’ll always care. I’ll always want to know more. I’ll always be pissed off that my knowledge on any given topic isn’t deeper, or that all the facts and figures I’ve learned over the years can be immediately recalled and cited. I’ll always be expanding my reading list, looking for another museum, watching the Discovery channel and hoping on Wikipedia because I just have to know what the hell that person it talking about. I’ll never be satisfied and I’ll never be bored. And now, looking at so many people in the world who just don’t and knowing that I do- I appreciate it.

LtLM Volume Two- On Cuteness

I’m cute.  I always thought that to be cute you had to be the physical embodiment of cute.  Small things are cute.  Things (be they animals or humans) with angelic faces are cute.  Weak things are cute.  My puppy is the physical embodiment of what it means to be cute.  Tall, big-footed, clumsy oafs like myself are not cute.  And yet, despite these governing laws, I am cute. 

How do I know this, you may wonder, given the lack of evidence to support such a theory?  Well, people have been telling me for years.  And after a while, you start to believe it.  If it were one or two select people- like my mom, who was the first person to say it- I’d be inclined to believe that the opinion was biased and therefore invalid.  But as more people who you think very highly of start to say it you begin to suspect that there may be something to it.  You value their opinion, in general, so you can’t discount their opinion on you.

Looking at it from their perspective, or from what I imagine their perspective to be, I can start to make a case for it.  I make silly little faces, all the time.  When I have a guilty treat that I should so NOT be eating given my dietary restrictions, I make the guiltiest face.  Like the kid that got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, as one friend observed.  I’ve been accused, several times, of perfectly imitating the face of Beaker (the squeaky muppet)- always by accident and NEVER by design.

In the book I’m reading the author said “My face is a transparent transmitter of my every thought.”  That’s me.  If there’s something on my mind, you can tell with one glance.  And if I’m trying to hide the fact that something is on my mind, it’ even more apparent.  My brow furrows the same way that your body automatically adjusts it’s balance to keep you upright.  It’s reflexive, involuntary, uncontrollable.  This makes me a terrible liar, but it also- sometimes- makes me cute.

Also in the appearance section, I love to wear cute things.  You show me a t-shit with a cute little animal on it and I will buy it without even asking the price.  I’m not talking glitter kittens or things you might suspect a crazy cat woman to wear, I’m talking little cartoon creatures or chibi caricatures that are just ridiculously cute.  If I see that t-shirt I will buy it and wear it.  I am sure that at some point it will become ridiculous for someone as old as me to wear such things but I doubt I’ll stop wearing them when that time comes.

In more relevant ways, you will never find another person who will squeal as loudly or as uncontrollably as I do when I see something that it just painfully adorable.  I once believed that my cause of death would be seeing something so cute that it would cause me to squeal at a frequency that would actually explode my voice box, or head.  Despite having seen things that are so unimaginably adorable that it literally caused me physical pain, my head has yet to explode.  But I have hurt a lot of people’s ears. 

My puppy, for example, is the cutest thing in existence.  Seriously, without exaggeration.  And he is sitting here on my lap as I type this.  And sometimes I am so completely overwhelmed by how indescribably adorable he is that I actually can’t breathe.  I will stop whatever I am doing, look at him, and feel this overwhelming urge to squeeze the life out of him because he is just so unimaginably cute that I want to somehow physically ingest the adorableness.

My deep appreciation for all things cute leads me to seek out things that should be reserved for small children.  I will get in line to pet that adorable zoo animal, even if I’m the only adult in line.  I will buy that children’s book that’s clearly written for ten year-old consumption, just because it’s filled with a felt bunny tummy or a finger puppet with a cute face.  I will tote my stuffed monster with me on long trips, and buckle his seat belt as he sits next to me in the passenger’s seat.  (Something which small children would totally do if they could drive.)  When the movie Wall-E came out I purchased a little Wall-E stuffed animal, brought him with me to the movie, perched him on my lap so he could see the screen, and covered his eyes when the Wall-E in the movie was being crushed.  I got some confused looks on the way out of the theater and just told myself that others were jealous they didn’t have their own Wall-E to snuggle, too.

I suppose in the end, the most compelling reason to make the argument that I am cute, is because I am so unabashedly child-like in my behaviors, responses and general quirks.  And although that may prevent me from being tough, pulling off a good misdirection or an air of mystery, or even reacting to something with reserve- it does make me cute.  And I appreciate that.